Monday, April 30, 2018

Not a leaf

I thought it was a leaf and attempted to swipe it from the laundry floor near the cat's tray to out of the way.

And that's how my big toe entered a world of cat shit. I had to walk with toe raised to clean it and because I cannot squat or bend normally had to brace myself in the doorway and hold myself against the washing machine to clean the shit up. It was awkward and painful.

Then I had a shower because I trod in shit and you can't just trust a wiped toe; that fucker needs soap action.

It's a great start to the week and made bigly by chemically-induced dread from failing to take my night pills.

Treading in shit; it's never fun. Kids, don't try it and stay in school.

Sunday, April 29, 2018

Hitler as a room mate

We were playing "would you rather?" where the option for a room mate was Hitler or an annoying cat that can design robots. Then for some reason he was pretending to be Hitler claiming he had the toothbrush moustache before Chaplin did. 

I proved Hitler as a room mate wrong because the wiki says Hitler dropped the then Kaiser mo with its twisty ends for the short tache so he could put on a gas mask in World War One but Chaplin had it in 1914, possibly before the war started.

What's the bet Hitler as a room mate would later hack the wiki to make it say otherwise?

I chose the cat, BTW. Even if it's annoying it can design robots and doesn't want to enthusiastically commit mass genocide.

Laptop opened

I was in the shed facing the closed laptop when I decided to plunge in. I was plunged for over four hours. I had to leave the shed after it was done so it meant an outside ride on a cold and rain-likely day.

Then it rained on me. The battery was turned off when the fall got heavy but I was close to home and got back before I got too wet. It was brutal though, riding in the easiest of gears up slopes that were barely slopes. 

I'm proud I plunged in but four hours was a lot. Here's hoping for no onset of anxiety from doing it.


Saturday, April 28, 2018

Laptop left closed

My anxiety was up from yesterday's bodkining and so the laptop remained closed. I'd set myself a deadline but I just couldn't do it. My IBS is raging from anti-biotics and I dreamed this morning someone kept pushing then grabbing me at the edge of a cliff and dream me thought he was going to die. 

So with all of that, plus the return of family noise, meant Valium and an afternoon sleep and no work. My brain rebelled and said no, maybe tomorrow.

CBT is a weird thing to live; using logic to recognise instability then following scripted mechanisms to deal with panic and dread. 

Maybe tomorrow I'll do it. But today I could not because my body and mind could not. I'm glad I could recognise that and step back. And it's normal the day after a horror to not want to do it again that very next day.

Here's to a calm approach; be Sully and bring it down safe. 


Friday, April 27, 2018

Poked eye with bodkin

If you look at this uni site entry on Newton you'll see he had some interesting ideas which included sticking a bodkin needle into his own eye. A bodkin, though Newton adds an "e" to his spelling, is "a long, thick needle with a ballpoint end".

He was a self-experimenter in an age where that was common and it was done with purpose, to further his knowledge of optics, but still, that's nuts; even a self-trepanner would baulk at that.

I did the mental health equivalent of that for over two hours of gruesome horror where I dug the needle in and yanked it around because I had to. I have to do more later. 

Ideally I'd not have to do it at all but duty calls. It's part of the glory that is having OCPD; you'll put yourself in harm's way or your brain gets harmed. 

Wrap your noggin around that.

Thursday, April 26, 2018

Work shirts and short shorts

I am a lackadaisical washer of clothes.

In my non-salaried work life I am at home and on doctor's orders wearing short shorts. Only I've run through all my t-shirts and so now, thanks to a washing build up, I am wearing work shirts—the shirts I wore in a normal workplace—with my short shorts. It looks like I'm all business above the waist but it's party time below. 

It's a weird combo. I have now put on a load of washing but it may be the case I end up at my psych appointment in this work–medical fun attire. 

(Cue scratching of notes by psychologist).

UPDATE: Am wearing McDonald's socks in crocs. I teased thewife for having three pairs of these socks until she said "I got them because my friend asked me to". Her friend with the child with leukemia who got support from one of their houses

That shut me the McFuck back up.

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

KKK shocked to find mid management are black

The South (willnotriseagain): Klan members were shocked April 23 when noted demagogue and shill for things that have chicken bones, Alex Jones, said KKK mid management were racist black people.

"Because let me tell you, the real big secret is the real KKK at the midlevel is a bunch of racist black people who hate black people," said Jones.

"You know that's probably why we had to turn up to every klan event already rigged in the robe and hood, no matter how small, for the last few months, on account of the sudden influx and successful infiltration of our sacred brotherhood by the black man," said one anonymous Grand Hero of the Cyclops Dragon who assured interviewers he himself was not black and that his rank was low-level, "as well as the sudden rise of high fives and use of 'my man' as a signal of collegial respect."

The one-eyed dragon said he blamed Obama. "Affirmative action and quotas and stuff like that allowed them to do that," said the klansman, "and those Obama phones."

That Alex Jones had tumbled this ruse just as midlevel management had been infiltrated by all black people who did not like black people was thanked by the klansman but said he will miss their presence.

"You know they're just like us, but with better music and food and with the added complication of being black in today's America," he said.

"So I will miss their eats and their table chatter too," he added forlornly.

Alex Jones's rumble of the ruse has once again cemented his power as America's number one media investigator and shows the extent of his almost omniscient power.

"CHICKEN PARTS MAKE ME GREEEEEAT!" said Jones through a spokesman as the now bare-chested super journo attacked the vending machine in the lobby mistaking it once again for the re-animated corpse of the Mexican bear that killed Davy Crockett at the Alamo by making him gay and do sex stuff to it.

Revenge of the horror

The horror work returned with fresh horror;  I had two anxiety attacks even 'fore I cracked the seals on this new set of tomes of soul-yanking terror. I got caught trapped in a space out, tears rolling on the second attack then had to be snapped out of it. 

But seals cracked, skim given and that's all I set out to do today. Ahead lies the real crunch of the cockroach.

As I skimmed, then did nerd work, power tools, motorbikes and bass guitar were pounding the soundscape. I paid it little heed having already cooked off, medicated up and CBTed myself through the work then reward of deep nerding.

Thank fuck for treatment and the assist given. Thank fuck for people who love me no matter what. Without that I'd be dead.

Revenge of the horror; it's not fun but I'm not pinned to the barn door by a pitchfork just yet.

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

Rolled ankle

I waited for him in the dark of the alley when Ankle came staggering out. He always left by the backdoor so he could piss in the alley before staggering home; he found the toilets at the pub not fit for his feet reasoning the outside alley was cleaner for rain than the pub's toilets whose only water splashed was that from the men that made it.

I waited until he was midstream, where he'd relaxed the muscle inside a man that prevents an honest flow. I coshed him, he went down, I rolled him over and took his wallet, his hair soaking in the water of this own making. Then with deliberate care I walked out into the street just as it started to rain.

My left foot went to sleep and after three steps my ankle rolled. I thought for a second I'd monstrously hurt it and feared the sensation of life when the numbing left. There was no break but the ankle is swollen and it hurts to walk. There will be no riding until it heals. My mother's MS was foreshadowed by moments like this and there is scare within me that may be my fate.

I'd just committed to riding the exercise bike every day, even if I have an outside ride unless it's a slog. Now no riding until the ankle is norm. 

My body is more likely to roll an ankle due to gestational malformation; not hereditary but a once off curse. Like an evil fairy who got snubbed dropped one at you at birth. Except SCIENCE! and it was my mother. She didn't mean to but she did and she hanged shit on me her entire life for it. 

There is also one thing that is not hereditary and that is how you behave. Your chances to shed niche cultural indoctrination are there when your life becomes you own. But it was 40 before I understood that and that I was finally free from self-hate even as I was afflicted by PTSD, OCPD, depression and anxiety.

I got dealt a crappy hand; a body that does not work as it should but you'd only know if you asked or cared about me. A body judged for its height and girth backed by a brain riddled with complication.

But I wouldn't change a second 'cos that led to a life of professional glee and macro-assist.

Self-hate; don't do it, it's not worth it. I had thirty years of that and I have it no more. Even if the penalty is a still-broken body and a wobbly mind.


Friday, April 20, 2018

Outside micturition

I have a body that's best described as "a fat hairy cherub that grew up".

That was not lost on me as I did a wee outside, one foot raised because it was sore and copied the pose you sometimes see on a water fountain cherub statue that is pissing out the water.

I'd like to see that; an aged-out adult cherub with a pained expression as he blasts forth a tepid dribble.

Take that, fountains! (shakes fist)


I woke up maudlin knowing there was horror work to do and asking myself if it was worth it. What will it achieve? Will it do anything? Is trying making me sicker?

I lay on my bed with my tablet with that looming grey mist ahead. 

Then I saw my battery level was 69%.

Heh heh ... 69.

So it can't be all bad if I can still laugh at that.

Wednesday, April 18, 2018

And the pedal connects to the ... shinbone

It's not meant to, it was an accident, but I managed somehow to slam the pedal of the BYB into my shinbone just outside a McDonald's. I yelled and said words that are not great as I went down ramps to reach lakeside and ride.

A pedal connecting to the shinbone is painful. Not piercing and squeezing an ever boil painful but painful nonetheless. I have a bruise across my lower leg where it struck. 

Fucking hell. I'm out getting exercise and processing distress and I ding my shin with my own super pushie.

That's such an Oz thing to do. Next I'll be dinking into the lake.

Later I got my ever boil pieced and squeezed.

Universe! (shakes fist)

Sanity check succeeded

I copped some distressing crap early in the day then had to deal with the outcome. I did a combo of a response, shower then exercise with music. Though my thoughts were still with the distress I didn't rage. I did bust out two Valium though just before the shower. 

The exercise was an outside ride and the chain came off. With little power and an upward slope I had no chance to glide back on battery. I had to stop and deal with it with the added drama of an urgent wee. I got the chain on after two goes and it stayed on. My wee was safely and legally received by my own toilet.

I took the mental equivalent of a tree branch to the face but so far have not lost it. I applied CBT and meds and dealt with the distress with almost detachment. I didn't lose my shit---or wee---when the chain came off either.

I may have nightmares later. But if I do I know what to do to stay sane when I awake.


Belly button hurt by chair

I was leaning across the old wooden chair when my gut rested on the edge and it went right into the belly button. It hurt. I stupidly went "what the fuck was that?" then poked myself there to confirm that's what it was; a self-strike with a chair to the belly button.

The confirming poke hurt as much as the chair-issued one. 

I'm short and fat; it leads to adventures with furniture. Not sexy ones, just basic attempts at avoidance or use.


Childhood, school and work; the three phases of getting to two legs all afflicted with horrors that invade my sleep. I wake brooding.

The boil

It's still going. Each night it is opened and ichor comes out. It hurts to move sometimes 'cos it's so tender. I didn't ride for five days to avoid chafe.

My cracked skin is appealing to someone who picks their skin. I have to rub moisturiser into my feet so they don't get crusty and picked and look like a baked dry river bed. They hurt to walk on. It hurts to move my legs into a position I can do it. I look like the world's worst contortionist.

The battle continues. Some days I feel it and my Valium use has dropped back---I've only had one in a week as a preventative for a public outing with noise and crowds.

The Ouroboros begins as it ends; I wake brooding but it doesn't define my day or cause snotty deep rage storms where you're wild-eyed and panting, tears and snot streaming from your eyes and nose. They used to, and still can, but for now I just brood instead of wail. That's better for everyone but especially for me.


Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Permanent guest star "leg boil" popped; non-hilarity ensues

My ever boil on the inside of my right leg—it's been there since last year—got popped. We let it rest in case the lump was inflammation from popping but the boil just rose up and had to get popped. Out came ichor and blood. There was much shrieking from me.
So it's back to the doctor for more advice or a what now?! Something is keeping the boil on the boil. I suspect it's an ingrown hair but I'm no doctor; just someone that meets a lot of doctors. 

I have many ailments. But I'm like a special car with a pit crew needed to keep at max efficiency. And I have a wee cup so I don't have to stop for breaks after lap 40. 

It's not all glamour, ladies. 

UPDATE: It got bigger overnight—like the peach from James and the Giant Peachwhich meant it,whatever it is that causes the lump was close to the surface.

When the lump was deep and pressed on it didn't hurt that much. But, close to the surface, after it was lanced with a needle then pressed on it hurt so much I thought I'd pass out. Apparently I didn't scream but did register vocal disquiet. But it means that hopefully the fucker is on the drain. It already feels better, movement wise, in the hours after its brutal open then contents squeezed. 

There's a weird pain after-glow you get from moments like this—or such as when you've passed a sizable poo—where you think back to that pain and the relief you now feel from whatever caused that pain. It's an odd euphoria.

But during the squeeze phase it felt like a broad bladed weapon gouging into my flesh. It was worse than the Xmas one.

Here endeth the ever boil? We shall see... 

Thumbed self in the balls

My left hand was aiming for underpants elastic when it happened and I misjudged where the thumb was going and I thumbed myself in the balls with my over-long thumbnail. 

It hurt as indeed almost all non-sexy testicle contact hurts if it's delivered with any force.

I trimmed my nails back the next day; no mean feat for someone with PTSD and jittery, shaking hands. The right thumbnail was the hardest as I'd let it go the longest and it was so thick the scissors held by my non primary hand ended up cutting into the nail at six spots just trying to land the killing blow to trim it all back. I'd have used nail clippers but I couldn't find them. 

People talk about the facts of life but rarely about the facts of mid-life. Where's sage old men telling middle-aged men that their scrotum is going to drop and they will likely hit themselves in the nuts more so be more careful? 

Balls; sometimes they're balls.

Sunday, April 08, 2018

Disappointed Queen

A while back I gave theboy a money tin I'd filled with spare change over two years from whatever coins were in my pocket when I walked into the shed. When it was full—it was a money tin from a Fathers Day stall that said "My DAD Rocks"—I was always going to give it him to say thanks for the tin

So with money from his tin he bought me a fancy swear box—a tasteful wooden effort with glass frontage allowing you to see the coins and notes fill it up. It wasn't meant to curb swearing, he just liked the box and told me when it was full then I had to spend the money on myself. 

It will take time to fill it. Since I am not in salaried work I don't walk around with a wallet with money in it and rarely enter the shed cashed up.

But there is a scattering of coins and a single five dollar bill, Queen-side facing out. She's in there sideways and she looks pissed off. 

I think it's about all the swearing. 

The swear box; there's an angry Queen in there and she's fussed about the cussin'. 

I still find it weird there's a Queen of Australia. She's nice and all but she's a historical affectation that should be cut loose. I look forward to currency in my lifetime that doesn't have a Queen or her spawn from a distant shore laced throughout our cash.

Saturday, April 07, 2018

Fat king great

I was on my man trike—the BYB—on a weekday afternoon ride when my path intersected with with another on which were three groups of kindy kids in red shirts. There were twenty to a group with teachers in the gaps. For no reason other than sheer enthusiasm they started waving at me as I waited for their pilgrimage to clear.

It was too socially awkward not to wave back but they weren't moving at speed and I caught them at the start of their parade. I waved the entire time and got apologetic thank-you nods from the teachers that were with each group. 

Halfway through I started waving like our current queen, a light hand twist that wasn't too irksome and felt majestic. For they were too young to revile me for being fat and just decided I was worth waving at.

So I felt like a fat king and I felt great.

Then I sped off into the afternoon sun.

Royalty, I get the buzz. I was, after-all, the queen of my high school class's last swimming carnival. 

I got overthrown into the pool.

And the three little ducks went CRACK, CRACK, CRACK

I was taking a cube from the dishwasher powder cube box when the set of three plastic nested measuring "spoons" that are duck-themed with bonnets added to their heads were nudged off the shelf and fell to the floor.

I knew it was going to happen—so I was ready for the noise—but when they all hit it sounded like derringer fire from someone shooting over my right shoulder. 

Derringers are small handguns but small guns still make noise when used and it sounded as if the person's wrist had been resting on my shoulder when they fired. 

PTSD is balls; even when you know a sound is coming it's still unpleasant to go through it. I had just enough time to register their knock, fall and prepare for impact.

And non-holy shit that was a nasty set of cracks. 

My body tingled with fleeting fight flight and left a rattle-stain, the emotional after-glow of a loud noise as your wounded brain recovers from the scare.

The other shit one to dropping things that clatter is the self-slamming a door as you pass through. If the backdoor is open but the screen closed and I pull too hard on the laundry door knob to close it as I pass through then the extra air means it will slam with force while I am in the impact zone. I'll sense the speed of the door is too high and think "shit" and then WHAM!, right in the fucking ear. I did it to myself; no-one to blame but me.

If a portal closes with force next to a person with PTSD, will they make a sound?

Sometimes—"shit" as said as the brain thinks it, "fuck" is another and "Jesus ant-fucking Christ I did that to myself" is a rare one I may have used.

PTSD; it's the fucked-up brain response that keeps on giving.

UPDATE: Seconds later... I turn to lock the toilet door and nudge the bottom toilet seat to fly up with my leg. I turn back as it slams down and blasts me with unexpected noise.

I yelled "FUCK!"

So it's the middle one.   

UPDATE2: I later went through the front door and slammed it behind me. Right into the right ear. Which makes a nice change; usually it's lefty that cops it.   

Wednesday, April 04, 2018

D&D with Lego figs

He had a fishman with a returning trident. I had a figure with bat wings with a panda mask and who was armed with a spiked chain. He came up with the Lego combo and concept and I kept track of stats and mechanics in play using adapted D&D 3.5 rules.

So, how did it end? He downed me with a wing strike, pinned my spiked chain to the ground with his trident, grabbed the still 5' of chain I could use from my hands causing me to stumble prone and then did a called shot to my groin. We used lives instead of hit points but a called shot was two lives and that's all I had left

I couldn't be more proud

(panda mask doffed).

Hurt self before and during sleep

I gave up to the impulse and picked the bottom of my right foot before sleep. I managed to peel off chunks of deep layered skin to the point it hurts to stand on that foot—more so than the day before when I had let the previous effort heal up.

I ripped the index nail off from my left toe. That I can remove entire nails is due to years of doing it and fucked-up feet. 

It was during sleep—or it happened in that null-space between sleep and awake—when I turned my left knee and wrenched it. I won't be able to ride until the wrenching feeling is gone lest I damage what little cartilage I have left. 

By the time I will die, presuming old age is reached, I'll be going into the corpse recyc with two artificial hips and knees. Yes, the knees—for their time will come to an end before me. It's just one of the advantages of having a skeleton warped in the womb—you wear out and replace bits of you way earlier than you should and people hang shit on you for having a body that doesn't quite work properly and apparently reflects poorly on them.

But I'm here, I'm weird and I'm used to it. I am a body and brain that survived in spite of it and even thrived in part because of it.

Fuck survival of the fittest; try the grittiest. 


Tuesday, April 03, 2018

It's a process

I was thinking of the twin horrors of childhood and workplace and reflected on those who've gone through this shit before me.

It was a process and they got through it. They did various things, such as therapy, but time was a factor. It took two years for relationships to settle to a point where they were happy.

I'm still fresh, in the early months of re-trauma and it's a recovery process that will take effort and time. Then I will be through it. 

There is an end point to this; to be both be mad and come to terms with that which caused it.

I felt Zen. There may be some wobbly bits I'm wobbling along the line of the process and then it will be done. Or it may not be; but I will have tried to make it so.

Acceptance is a bitch. It's hard to embrace it because it bites, there are fleas and there is something manky hanging off its ear.

Short shorts fart fail; crockery exposed

I was unloading the dishwasher when my doctor-ordered short shorts fell past my arseline. Behind me was the crockery cupboard, at arse level, which was open to receive that which I was getting from the dishwasher. 

That's when I farted into the cupboard. It's not like I backed up with a reverse beeping noise, and there was no "spackle" as best I could tell—it was just a dry rectal cough. But still I farted on our cups, plates and glasses and that's not cool.

I confessed to the accident but there's little to be done. It happened, we have to accept it and move on. The only other option is to call in an airstrike to remove it or take all the crockery out and wash it solely on the basis it may have had a brief exposure to some arse gas. 

Needless to say neither option was on the table. But if it was John Bolton making the decision my house and the surrounding street would now be irradiated glass

That Mikey, he always has to bring a fart joke back to geopolitics. 

Here's to my big opening

With thanks to Elvira.

My ever boil gets tended every night. It's on the inside of my right thigh. It gets squeezed, stuff comes out and a poultice is applied by thewife.

Unless we close the door the black cat will come, hop on my tummy and watch the show. Because all the action is down there it means I get a great view of her enormous arsehole. As far as cats I know she has the biggest actual action area and the feline eye of Mordor was two inches from my eyes. There were no dags and it didn't smell. But I enjoyed the double-team of having unpleasant things done to my self whilst watching a cat's enormous starfish. In truth it's more fish than star and were it affixed to a wall and man-sized you'd presume it was an organic rip in spacetime to the upsidedown dimension from Stranger Things.

That would explain the nosebleed afterwards.